


Empty

by MintJam



Series: Live a lie [13]
Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: Alfie cares really, BDSM, Cock Warming, Dom/sub, Food Issues, General Angst, Honest, M/M, Safewords, Spanking, Whump, migraines, referenced historic abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-17
Updated: 2020-01-17
Packaged: 2021-02-26 07:34:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,434
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21859897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MintJam/pseuds/MintJam
Summary: "Your three-year-old eats more than you," Alfie says, giving Tommy a very straight look. Fucking hell, Tommy rolls his eyes internally, because he could do without this on their first morning here; this whole scenario is bizarre enough. He knows he's lost weight, and he knows Alfie's noticed, but it's been a stressful few months and he'll put it back on in his own time. The words, "fuck off," are on the tip of his tongue, but for the sake of avoiding hypocrisy he doesn't vocalise them.
Relationships: Tommy Shelby/Alfie Solomons
Series: Live a lie [13]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1410712
Comments: 100
Kudos: 402





	1. Larder

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to the lovely museboundinshallows for beta reading. And to Tinypinetrees for multiple chats about this topic!

It's strange that Tommy’s been in every room in Alfie's house except this one. I mean he knew it was here of course, the larder, knew it probably had marble shelves and a small mesh window; he's just never considered stepping inside it before. Never had any reason to. Because let's face it, food isn't generally the first thing on Tommy's mind when he gets to Camden (it isn't generally the first thing on his mind _ever_ ). But it most certainly is the first thing on Charlie Shelby's mind right now. He's perched on Tommy's hip, deceptively heavy in that way that only toddlers are, as if their bones are too dense and their heads too heavy for their meagre size. He reaches a pudgy hand out for each glass jar that Tommy picks up, only to grumble in disappointment when it's put back on the shelf.

"Hungry," he says for the fifteenth time in the past five minutes, impatient as any freshly woken child for the familiarity of his usual breakfast.

"I know, Charlie, I'm looking alright?" Tommy sighs. It's early and he's tired and he hasn't had a smoke yet. "Surely he's got to have oats in here somewhere." 

"Hungry Daddy," Charlie repeats, his voice still on the optimistic side of emphatic but Tommy knows only too well that the boy's patience is a limited resource that could run out at any moment. He finds a tin filled with large, square crackers and foists one into Charlie's small fist to placate him for a moment. There are lots of packets and tins filled with things that Tommy doesn't even recognise. Which is odd, really; it feels a bit like snooping. He's never given much thought to what Alfie eats — beyond the fact that he has a far larger appetite than his own — but then he's a far larger man, isn't he?

"Here we are, Charlie!" he says triumphantly, when he's finally located a large jar filled with what appear to be rolled oats. "Right, five more minutes and we'll have breakfast." He sets Charlie down on his feet and wanders back into the main kitchen, pulling a small pan from a hook on the wall. He sloshes in the oats and milk, pausing to light a cigarette that he clenches between his teeth as he stirs the mixture impatiently. When eventually it has thickened he scrapes the steaming mixture into a white bowl. 

"Porridge!" Charlie shouts, abandoning his cracker to the floor. There ensues some fuss about the lack of honey. "Uncle Alfie doesn't like it, Charlie. He thinks it tastes like hayfever," Tommy explains. "What does he know, eh?" Charlie condescends to have sugar instead, resulting in another foray into the larder, before he sits himself on Tommy's lap to eat at the kitchen table. He seems very pleased with this arrangement. Given that he isn't yet dressed, Tommy doesn't much mind either (he can cope with porridge and sugar on his undershirt and shorts; his suits are another matter). It'd been Alfie's idea to bring Charlie down. Tommy had thought it a strange suggestion at first, but he can't deny that keeping the different strands of his life separate is logistically difficult (not to mention wearing). He hasn't seen enough of Charlie these past few months and it's nice doing simple things with him. Plus Ada's back from New York this week, so it's a good opportunity for Charlie to see his aunt and cousin. None of which masks the strangeness of sitting in Alfie's warm kitchen with his young son where he's only ever been on his own before today.

He's busy feeding Charlie the last of his porridge, pretending the spoon is a galloping horse, when Alfie appears in the doorway. He just stands quietly, braces dangling loosely from his trousers, with a small smile on his face. Tommy ignores him until Charlie has finished the mouthful. It's a long time since the three of them were in the same room and he's not sure how any of them will react to the realities of a weekend together. 

"Did you save any for me?" Alfie asks, addressing Charlie directly. "No," answers the boy, shyly. "For Daddy." He pushes the spoon into Tommy's mouth, accompanied by a 'clip-clopping' sound, in just the way Tommy did a moment earlier. Alfie's eyebrows raise. "So that's what it takes to get him to eat, eh? Interesting." He shuffles into the room and over to the stove where he puts the kettle on. "Bloody 'ell Tommy, did you actually keep any of that in the pan?" he grumbles.

"Language, Alfie," Tommy mutters.

"I tell you what, Charlie, if I make some more porridge, you think you can help daddy eat his?" Alfie says over his shoulder.

"Yes!" shouts Charlie.

"If I'd wanted porridge I'd have made it," Tommy says pointedly.

"Your three-year-old eats more than you," Alfie counters, giving Tommy a very straight look. Fucking hell, Tommy rolls his eyes internally, because he could do without this on their first morning here; this whole scenario is bizarre enough. He knows he's lost weight, and he knows Alfie's noticed, but it's been a stressful few months and he'll put it back on in his own time. The words, "fuck off," are on the tip of his tongue, but for the sake of avoiding hypocrisy he doesn't vocalise them. Instead he sits and sips tea and tries to stave off the headache that started yesterday, when the low winter sun reflected in the car's mirrors on the long drive here. 

"Why don't you have honey?" Charlie asks quietly.

"Honey?" Alfie starts, sounding exaggeratedly thoughtful. "Well, you see the thing is, Charlie, honey is made by bees. They carry it on their little feet. And I guess I just don't much like the taste of bees' feet."

"Bears love honey," Charlie continues.

Alfie chuckles. "Well I'm a very strange sort of a bear, Charlie."

"An Alfie Bear!"

"Yeah, and _Alfie_ bears don't like honey. Normal bears, sure. But I think you're going to see some of those this afternoon?"

Charlie spins round in Tommy's lap to look him in the face. "Are we, Daddy?" he asks excitedly.

"Indeed we are," Tommy confirms. "We're going to meet Aunty Ada and Karl and we're going to London Zoo to see all sorts of animals."

"Alfie Bear too?" Charlie asks.

"I'm afraid not," Alfie answers, before Tommy has a chance to. "You see I haven't been feeling so well these last couple of weeks and I don't think all that walking will do me much good."

Charlie whines in disappointment, which makes Tommy feel, well, some sort of a way, because it's nice that Charlie likes Alfie. But Alfie _hasn't_ been well (a chest infection set in after that flood at the bakery) and it's laid him low for a while. Hearing him outright admit to any frailty is unusual; perhaps bringing Charlie wasn't a good idea after all. 

"How about I make you a lovely supper to come home to. Hmm?" Alfie says, still addressing the son rather than his father.

Charlie just slumps heavily into Tommy's chest with a scowl on his face. "Come on Charlie, lets go and get dressed," Tommy says, lifting the boy up as he stands. "We don't want to make Alfie Bear unwell again do we? He'll still be here when we get back."

"But he won't see Karl," Charlie winges as they leave the room, "or Aunty Ada."

"Well why don't Ada and Karl come back here for dinner too?" Alfie says.

"I don't know about that," Tommy starts, "you should rest." But poor Charlie is already pumping his fists in excitement and looking at Tommy with such wide eyes that he doesn't have the heart to say no. Alfie just shrugs his shoulders and looks quite pleased with the idea so Tommy swallows down his trepidation. It's not like Alfie and Ada haven't met already. "I'll ask her," he says.

*****

Their afternoon is a big success as far as Charlie and Karl are concerned. The four of them spend several hours roaming the exhibits (including at least half an hour at the bear enclosure, with Charlie excitedly yabbering about Alfie Bear). Ada gives Tommy a soft look when she hears that and he is forced to admit that Charlie and Alfie may already have met. More than once.

"I can't believe you introduced him to your son and you didn't tell me," she says, slapping Tommy on the arm. "It wasn't exactly planned," Tommy replies, without elaborating on the rather unfortunate circumstances of Alfie and Charlie's prior meetings. Neither occasion was planned or particularly happy, which doesn't make Tommy feel great. He should really try to make this evening a success. 

"Well, I am rather looking forward to this supper tonight," Ada announces when they're all watching the penguins. "Can he actually cook?"

Tommy furrows his brow in thought, "I have no fucking idea," he answers. 

"What do you mean you have no idea? How long have you two been ..."

"Fuck, Ada, we don't sit around like some old married couple making each other dinner," he sighs.

"I bet you don't," she smirks. "Pity though, you look like you could do with some meat on those bones."

"Don't _you_ start," he sighs, at which point he is rescued by Charlie and Karl running over to announce that they're hungry.

Ada buys four hot sausage rolls which they eat, perched on a wall outside the little on-site shop, in the meagre warmth of the mid-December sun. Despite repeated warnings to be careful, Charlie burns his tongue and ends up dropping most of his on the ground. Tommy preempts the wailing protest by handing over the remainder of his own half-eaten roll to his son and lighting a cigarette instead.

"Don't tell Alfie Bear," Charlie says when he's finished every last morsel of pastry.

"Don't tell Alfie Bear what?" asks Ada, looking concerned.

"I ate Daddy's," Charlie sniffs, looking at the floor.

"Why not?" Tommy interrupts.

"He said...he said...to make sure daddy eats," Charlie stammers, kicking his feet against the wall.

Tommy feels a surge of anger at the thought of Alfie talking about him behind his back. He's not a fucking child and how _dare_ Alfie bring his own child into this. Ada must sense it because she interjects quickly, "Well that's because Alfie Bear is Daddy's friend and just wants to make sure he's looked after," she says, eyes boring into Tommy rather than Charlie as she speaks. "Isn't that right, Tommy?" she adds when he doesn't respond. "Yes," Tommy manages to say, through gritted teeth. "I'm full up anyway," he says to his son, which isn't actually a lie, he feels like he couldn't swallow another mouthful if he tried. He'll be having words with Alfie later, but he needs to stay calm, to enjoy the rest of the day for Charlie's sake.

The boys tear after each other like a couple of puppies for the remaining hours of daylight. Ada and Tommy chat; it's good to see her, she looks well, in her red lipstick and entirely unsuitable shoes. He asks after his brothers and Ada doesn't lie; nothing's changed. "It's not really John or Arthur, Tom," she says, "it's Esme and Linda that're the driving force for this ridiculous feud. But Christmas is round the corner. They'll soften up," she says with more certainty than she's shown before. "I'd love to know what Linda's gonna make of Alfie when they do," she says with a smile.

Tommy stops walking and grabs her arm, turning to face her abruptly, "Linda isn't going to make _anything_ of Alfie. Nor are the rest of them. Alright?" The one saving grace of this entire fucked up family situation is that he doesn't have to tell anyone anything. Aside from Ada and Charlie, nobody else knows about Alfie and that's exactly how he plans to keep it. 

"Tommy, I'm pretty sure Lizzie has her suspicions..."

 _Fuck._ Fucking _fuck_. He doesn't need this. Right, well, Lizzie can be trusted to keep her counsel, just like the rest of the staff. He's pretty confident of that.

"And I told Polly."

"You did what?" Tommy says, his blood running cold so fast it feels like ice is slipping down his spine.

"I told Polly," Ada repeats, defiantly. She breaks eye contact to fish for cigarettes in her long coat whilst Tommy struggles to keep his features neutral. Her lips are moving but he can't really make out what she's saying because it's as if a bomb has just exploded in his skull. His hearing has gone, replaced by a high pitched whine that is making his head vibrate and his vision blur. He feels dizzy — weak — from the top of his neck to the backs of his knees. He clenches his fists and waits for the adrenaline to peak.

"Look, you know as well as I do that you're not going to be able to keep it from her," Ada is saying. "She'll know. And she's not talking to you anyway, she's barely talking to anyone other than Michael. So, I figured at least she's got time to get used to the idea." 

Tommy turns his back on her, utterly incredulous — and terrified — he can admit that much to himself. " _Fuck_ , Ada," he breathes, when he dares to summon his voice. "It wasn't your fucking _place_ ..." He looks up to the sky, one hand on the back of his neck. _How could she? This is just ... Ada's usually such a strategist. On his side. How could she do this to him?_ It feels like the air has been sucked away and the ground is moving; a backdraft after the initial explosion. He starts to pace, up and down, away from his sister and back again, away and back. A thousand thoughts fly through his head, like debris chasing the blast; he can't grab hold of a single one beyond the fact that she looks so bloody sure of herself. Like she's absolutely _certain_ this was the right move. It's a thread of reassurance to hang on to; Ada ia rarely wrong.

"What did she say? Pol?" he asks, very quietly.

"Oh, I'm sure you can imagine. Something about your consistently appalling taste in lovers ... how Grace must have really fucked you up," Ada says, coolly tapping her ash onto the ground. Tommy inhales deeply, forces his hands further into his pockets, trying to tamp down the toxic mix of fury and dread that is knotting in his stomach.

"Look, Tom, they're her words, not mine. She's still angry. She'll come round. In the end."

Tommy says nothing thereafter. He doesn't trust himself to say anything that won't wreck the one sibling relationship that's still intact. They make their way slowly towards the exit, his mind whirring frantically. He'll have to tell Alfie. He'll be livid ... maybe he'll end it ... maybe Tommy should end it first ... who else knows? Quite frankly it's all he can do to keep breathing. "Trust me, Tom," Ada says as they reach the road outside, putting a hand on his forearm. "I know what I'm doing. It's for the best. You need Alfie. And I need you. And we need Polly back in the fold." He wants to believe her, Christ, he wants to believe her. He'd be lying if he said there wasn't the tiniest fragment of relief in her revelation. That it's out. It's done and out of his hands. It's only Polly he tells himself. It's not the end of the world.

The late afternoon sun is piercingly low, reawakening Tommy's lurking headache, and the two small boys are seriously flagging. "How about a treat before we get in the car?" Ada suggests. The boys are delighted as she leads them into a traditional sweet shop just outside the park. Karl takes a lead in choosing from the rows and rows of brightly coloured jars that line the wooden shelves. It takes Tommy back to his childhood, to standing on the threshold of Mrs Muggins' Emporium in Small Heath, breathing in the scent of vanilla and caramel and boiled sugar. Once upon a time that was the smell of dreams; now it's distinctly sour. "Just a few now, the rest after dinner," Ada instructs as they head to the car. "Like that's gonna work," Tommy mutters. 

*****

Tommy spends the journey back to Camden plotting his next steps. Keep Ada close. Visit Polly and set out some home truths. Don't tell Alfie anything yet and make this evening work, for Charlie's sake. They're greeted at the front door by the aroma of roasting meat. "Flippin' heck that smells amazing," Ada beams at Alfie, "you're a man of hidden talents, Solomons."

"Yeah well, I ain't used to having anyone who appreciates 'em, am I?" he replies. Tommy watches Alfie and Ada hug and tries to let that blanket all the other feelings. The fireplaces are lit and there's that warm smell and Alfie is looking much healthier than he has done in weeks. A bit flustered, in his stripey apron, but better nonetheless. Tommy sends the boys up to wash their hands and wanders into the dining room to find the table laid; candles flickering in the centre and a huge bowl of fresh bread. Alfie's clearly gone to some trouble and Tommy would honestly be touched, if he didn't feel so unbearably heavy. Like he's carrying a weight he can't put down. He wanted Charlie and Karl to have a good time; he wanted Alfie to like Ada and Ada to like Alfie and for this to be something like family. And yet now it all feels too precarious. Like the delicate balance he and Alfie have created is already being shattered, even if he's the only one who can see it. 

He's three whiskeys down by the time Alfie serves the food. There's brisket of beef with some sort of potato cakes and plenty of bread. The boys look in seventh heaven, wolfing everything down. Charlie sits on Alfie's lap for half the meal (too old for a high chair, too young to reach comfortably on his own). It's hard to ignore the warmth between them and it makes Tommy feel only frozen. Like he's seeing the situation with an outsider's eyes — how ridiculous and untenable everything is — how much he's deluded himself and now his son too. 

Perhaps this is the end. The beginning of the end of the lie he has let himself believe; that he and Alfie could have a life. Like this. The meal passes in a blur. He is barely monosyllabic. Ada tries her best to cover for him by chatting and drinking for two. She teases both Charlie and Alfie and tries to pull Tommy into the conversation, throwing him intense, knowing stares whenever he fails to respond. By the time everyone's cutlery has stilled he realises he's barely begun. Alfie has noticed it too and stares at his full plate looking distinctly unimpressed.

The boys disappear from the table, reappearing with striped paper bags. "Can we? Please!?" they whine in unison, looking from Ada to Tommy and back. "Give us a look, then," Alfie says, "I ain't been to a proper sweet shop in years." Karl enthusiastically lays out their wares: barley sugar, liquorice, bon bons, toffee and pear drops. Charlie follows suit. "Liquorice, that's my favourite," Alfie announces and Charlie promptly pushes two little black Pontefract cakes in Alfie Bear's direction. "Well, that's very kind of you young man, I'll just take the one, thank you. Now, what about your dad, eh? What's his favourite."

Karl jumps in when Charlie hesitates. "Barley sugar! That's what the horses like, isn't it Uncle Tommy?"

"For you," Charlie says, pushing two sweets towards his father. Tommy's eyes flick briefly up to his sister's, his insides hardening at the mere sight of the boiled, orange confectionary. 

"Thank you Charlie," he says. 

"Eat them," Charlie says, smiling.

"I'll save them for later," Tommy assures him, but Charlie's face has dropped already. "You don't want them?"

Tommy sighs and takes the two sweets from the table, putting them in his pocket in the hopes of ending this conversation. "I said I'll save them for later," he repeats, a little too harshly. Alfie's eyes are burning into him, flickering from his still-full plate to his pocket and back and Tommy can't bear it any more — the scrutiny, the fear, the sickening memories those innocent sweets conjure up — he stands up abruptly, brushing past Charlie and Alfie in his haste to leave the room.

"Oi," he hears Alfie bark behind him, his patience clearly evaporating, and then, Ada's softer tone, "leave him. Please." He walks through the kitchen and into the yard and hurls the sweets so hard at the wall they shatter into tiny, glistening shards. 

*****

When he heads back into the kitchen — three cigarettes later and stone fucking cold — Alfie is noisily stacking plates at the sink. He's quietly furious (Tommy can tell by the set of his shoulders and the sound of his breath). Well, he's not the only one. Why can't people leave him alone?

"How hard can it fucking-well be?" Alfie says, without looking round.

"Don't," Tommy answers. 

"I mean why can't you just eat a fucking meal that's been cooked for you? What is so _bloody_ difficult?"

Ada walks in carrying glasses and looks as if she's been physically assaulted by the icy atmosphere. She straightens up, raises her eyebrows and announces she's put Charlie to bed. 

"Why do you have to bring my son into this, eh?" Tommy counters, when Ada has vanished once more. "Why did you ask him to spy on me?" 

"Because nothing I do ever works, does it?" Alfie says. He's not even denying his meddling, which does nothing to dampen Tommy's growing sense of righteous anger.

"Is it sheer arrogance or do you actually believe you're super-human? Hmm? You think you can walk round and shun the basics of survival because it's all beneath the ethereally beautiful Thomas Shelby?"

Tommy responds with a derisive snort. 

"You're shrinking before my very eyes, mate. And what sort of person can't eat a fucking barley sugar to make his son happy?" Alfie presses on.

"Just tell him, Tommy," Ada shouts angrily from the hallway, and _fuck_ , hasn't she done enough already? 

"Tell him what?" Alfie asks.

"About the bloody, _fucking_ barley sugar," Ada says, peering back round the kitchen door. "God men are pathetic," she adds as her footsteps recede once again down the hall.

Alfie stares at him expectantly. "Fuck off," Tommy says, which is pathetic and uncalled-for after the effort Alfie's gone to, but at the same time seems easier than the truth; easier than even trying to explain how it is possible to feel so empty and starving and nauseous at the same time. How he's hardened himself against hunger for so long that he can barely tell what it is. How his stomach rebels at the slightest provocation — fear, anger, anxiety, shame — and how he feels _all_ of those things right now. But then Ada's back. "Someone needs to knock your bloody heads together," she says. "He won't eat barley sugar because our father beat him half blind for feeding it to the horses," she sighs.

"Leave it, Ada," Tommy whispers through clenched teeth, which is a lot calmer than what he wants to say. She doesn't take the hint, or maybe she's too riled up to care. "With a fucking chain," she continues. "If it hadn't been for Charlie and Curly he wouldn't be standing there now," she says, glaring at Alfie whilst gesticulating at Tommy as if he isn't even there. "And if you want him to eat, you're going about it the wrong way, Solomons."

"Well would somebody care to enlighten me as to what the right fuckin' way might be?" Alfie yells, his anger no longer hidden. "'Cause it's fuckin' obvious I ain't go a clue."

"Make him hungry," Ada yells back. When Tommy looks up from the floor Alfie is glaring at him like he's so thoroughly unsurprised and unimpressed with everything he's just heard he might just walk out of Tommy's life and never come back. He doesn't move and doesn't say anything, just makes a dismissive noise in the back of his throat, which Tommy ignores as he strides out into the hall after Ada. "Go and read to Charlie, he's waiting for you," she says. "And then talk to Alfie. He's right. You look like a bloody ghost." She pulls Karl along by the hand and slams the door as she leaves.

*****

Alfie leans on the doorway to the guest room, where Tommy has just finished tucking Charlie in. He's staring at Tommy. Again. In that completely unreadable way. "Make you hungry eh?" he says. "And how exactly do I do that?"

"I'm sure you can come up with something," Tommy replies, pulling his tie off dejectedly as he heads towards their bedroom. Alfie doesn't stop him, which he has to suppose is something.

"Wanna fuck your way out of this, is that it?"

"Seems as good a solution as any," Tommy answers.


	2. Honey

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Of course Tonmy wants to fuck his way out of this. Like the dysfunctional idiot he is. Not that Alfie can begrudge him the impulse itself—there is, after all, a large part of his own subconscious that is itching to resolve this conflict with his dick—it's just that Tommy is skipping a few critical details.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Will make most sense if you've read the rest of my Live a Lie AU.  
> Tommy suffers migraines ever since the priest's attack.

Of course Tonmy wants to fuck his way out of this. Like the dysfunctional idiot he is. Not that Alfie can begrudge him the impulse itself—there is, after all, a large part of his own subconscious that is itching to resolve this conflict with his dick—it's just that Tommy is skipping a few critical details. Like the fact that Alfie is seriously pissed off. He went to all that effort, for a family that isn't even his, only to have it thrown back in his face. It's not that he cooked the meal to be thanked (although frankly, a _thank you_ wouldn't have gone amiss) but, nor did he cook it to have Tommy sit there in silence for the entire bloody duration, so fucking self-absorbed he was oblivious to everyone and everything around him. The more he thinks about it, the angrier he gets. 

His fury has been simmering since Tommy left that dining table. And so his father was a brutal cunt? Like that's honestly news (Alfie could have guessed that the very first time he set eyes on that hard, chiseled face). If the revelation is supposed to excuse anything then it hasn't. Tommy's father was likely no different from any other in that sewer of a city he calls home (those that stuck around at any rate). It was a long time ago and it doesn't give Tommy the right to humiliate Alfie, to reject his food and hospitality and leave _him_ to entertain their guests. There's a small and unpleasant part of Alfie's head that wants to retaliate for the imagined slight, to thump him until his head spins. Which is why he places one hand flat against Tommy's sternum and pushes him so hard against the bedroom wall it makes his skull thud.

"You really want me to fuck you, now?" he asks.

Tommy shrugs nonchalantly, but Alfie can feel him trying to surge forward—hair ghosting over his eyes; breathing heavy—and has to push back hard, use all of his weight, to keep Tommy flat against the wall.

"I really don't think you do," he says, pausing, trying to read something in those vivid blue irises. But the man behind them appears to have fucked off entirely. Vacated the premises. Drawn down the blinds and left a dim lamp on to fool passers-by. That absence incenses Alfie. "Maybe it's my own fault, right, for expecting you to appreciate any of it. To talk to your own family. To eat more than two _fucking_ forkfuls. But no. _You_ ," he says, jabbing at Tommy's chest, " _you_ couldn't even pretend, could you?"

Tommy glares back in that vacant, condescending way he does sometimes.

"If there's one thing I don't like, Tommy, it's being used."

Tommy's mouth remains set in a defiant line, but he brings a hand up to grip the arm that's pinning him.

"I've had enough. I'm not fucking you just to give you an appetite."

Tommy's brow does crease at that, like he genuinely doesn't know what Alfie's talking about. And maybe he doesn't.

"What is going on in there, hmm?" Alfie asks, tapping Tommy's temple with one finger. (It's not that he's expecting an answer; he might as well ask the wooden chair in the corner, he knows that, but a reaction would be nice). "You're a taker, Tom. A fucking _taker_."

"Then make me take it," Tommy shouts, quick as a slammed door. It would sound defiant if it weren't for the undertone of desperation.

Alfie snorts and pulls away. "You make me feel awkward in my own bloody house and then you honestly ask me to _fuck_ you?"

"I didn't," Tommy says. Which doesn't even make sense because they both know it's what he wants.

"Ask me," Alfie growls.

Tommy narrows his eyes. "Fuck me," he says, dragging his lower lip languidly against his teeth on the fricative. He looks hungry now. Just not for food.

Alfie shakes his head slowly. "You reckless bastard. If I fucked you now, I wouldn't stop until I'd hammered you through the floor." He grabs Tommy's shirt in his fist and twists it, pulling him off the wall, "until I'd drenched that pretty face in tears and mucous and made you so fucking sorry you'd curse the day you ever heard the name Alfie Solomons." He's panting like a bull, can hear it in his own ears, and the way Tommy's jutting his chin up at the threat is pulling at the remaining strands of his better instincts, daring him to go through with it, to hurt him.

"Get the fuck out," Alfie snarls, forcing Tommy towards the door, "go sleep with your boy. Before I do something we both regret."

Tommy stumbles backwards whispering, "fuck you," so viciously he sounds like a riled snake. 

"And don't even think about putting that kid in the car," Alfie hisses after him. "You're too goddamn pissed." He slams the door and hurls his cane across the room with an almighty growl that does nothing to calm his thumping heart. 

*****

He can't sleep, never can when he's angry, so he just lies there staring at the ceiling, listening to Tommy pace about downstairs. It's moments like this he wishes he drank, just to drown out the fire that's burning in his chest (no doubt Tommy's drowning himself in the rest of the bottle down there). How long can they keep doing this? He and Tommy? The man himself is one thing, but what's going to happen when this Shelby feud ends? Which presumably it will at some point (at least if Ada's to be believed). Much as Tommy might need them, Alfie's not sure he can deal with any more Shelbys. The only family he's ever known was his mother and she's long since dead. And, well, his father, but his father's a hat. Perhaps he should be more grateful.

He turns onto his stomach and tries to force himself into sleep but is roused by a loud crash downstairs. Sounds like crockery versus flagstones (the flagstones have clearly won). Which means Tommy's in the kitchen, probably scavenging the leftovers like some alley-cat. It's the only time Alfie ever sees him eat willingly—late at night, after they've fucked—although they haven't, so maybe it's the whiskey bottle he heard. Bloody hell, why is he even _thinking_ about this? None of his fucking business what Tommy does or doesn't eat. He's not responsible for the man. He puts a pillow over his head as though it might silence his thoughts. If only.

Sleep must come to him eventually, because he wakes the next morning with guilt clinging to him as surely as the damp bedsheets. It's early, the first slivers of light not yet breaching the curtains as he stretches slowly, feeling weighed-down already. His rest was broken by nightmares of course, but it wasn't his usual nocturnal visitors; this time it was a faceless man in jangling chains, like Jacob Marley's ghost. He doesn't need to have read Freud to figure that one out. He pulls himself upright and plants his feet on the rug with an unusual sense of trepidation. He has no idea what awaits him outside that bedroom door; it's a discomfiting thought in his own fucking house. 

The first thing he notices as he makes his way downstairs is Tommy's bag, packed and waiting by the front door, a battered toy horse standing by its side. He's vaguely surprised and, alright, possibly a little relieved, that they haven't yet left. There's no one in the kitchen so he puts the kettle on and is just preparing tea when Charlie appears in the doorway, fully dressed and already in his coat and shoes. "Want some porridge young man?" Alfie asks when there's no sign of Tommy.

"Yes please," Charlie answers quietly. He looks tired.

"Charlie, we're having breakfast at Ada's" says a deep voice from the doorway. "We discussed this."

"I want Alfie to make it," Charlie says, sitting himself at the kitchen table.

"But Aunty Ada has honey, remember?" 

Alfie disappears into the larder and returns with the oats and a large jar of amber honey, which he places on the table in front of Charlie. "For you," he whispers into the boy's ear. "If Daddy wants to go you can take it with you," he says, glancing over at Tommy, who sighs deeply as he rubs at his eyes, half-hidden by the shadow of his cap. Charlie looks delighted, enthralled by the large slab of honeycomb that hangs in the centre of the glistening, gold gloop.

"Daddy, Daddy, look what Alfie Bear got! There's beehive inside, look!" he says, grabbing the honey clumsily in both hands and rushing towards his father. Tommy lurches forwards on instinct, reaching for the glass jar just as it slips from Charlie's hands; he's too slow, and seems to lose his balance in the attempt, falling hard onto his hands and knees on the tiled floor. Charlie's lip trembles as he watches the honey ooze from the cracked glass, commencing its slow-motion escape. The tears follow quickly and Alfie scoops him up and sits him back on a chair. "Don't worry," he says, crouching down to the boy's height. 

"I'm sorry," Charlie cries, rubbing his face, "I'm really, really sorry."

"Don't matter. We'll get another jar. Plenty more where that came from."

"With the hive inside?" Charlie asks.

"With the hive inside," Alfie assures him. "No need for tears, eh? Just sit there a minute. Don't wanna get those smart shoes all sticky now, do ya?" He's very aware that behind him Tommy hasn't moved to get up; he is sitting back on his heels, just where he fell, one hand over his eyes. He looks as white as chalk.

"Sit down, yeah?" Alfie says, not moving to help him because he could do without a clout at this time in the morning. "At least eat something before you get in the car." Alfie returns to the stove, but he can hear Tommy hauling himself from the floor and onto a wooden chair opposite Charlie. "Are you hurt, Daddy?" the boy whispers. 

"I'm fine," Tommy mumbles, reaching over to pat Charlie's hand, although he sounds anything but.

Alfie proceeds to make porridge, stirring and clattering into the heavy silence as the untended honey-puddle expands slowly in the background, much like his sense of unease. He places the bowl of hot porridge and a spoon in front of Tommy, jabbing the latter under his fingers, where they rest on the edge of the table. He fully expects that to rile Tommy, to get under his skin, but the man barely seems to notice, much less react. Alfie stares at Tommy staring at the spoon for several long seconds before frustration gets the better of him and he has to turn away. He serves two more bowls, one for himself and one for Charlie, who climbs onto his lap, either oblivious to his father's strange stillness or familiar enough with it not to be bothered (Alfie's not sure which explanation is more concerning). The boy proceeds to ask a string of questions about bees and honeycomb and wax, which Alfie tries valiantly to answer despite each and every response being met with an increasingly cheeky, "but why?" It's not long before his apian knowledge is exhausted—with his patience not too far behind. 

"That's enough, Charlie," Tommy says sharply. "Eat up, we need to go." 

"But why?" Charlie answers sheepishly. He's met with a scowl so furious he doesn't try it again. Tommy finally picks up his own spoon and consumes a total of five mouthfuls, (not that Alfie's counting) hunched over with his head in one hand. Then he stands up abruptly, retrieving his cap from the floor, chair scraping against the tiles as he does so. Alfie doesn't miss the way he winces at the noise.

"Come on, we'll be late," Tommy says, holding a hand out for his son. What exactly they're going to be late for at seven o'clock on a Sunday morning is a mystery.

Charlie looks set to protest until Alfie leans into his ear, "be a good boy, do as your dad says, yeah?" He pats Charlie on the shoulder as he slides down from the chair, pausing to look at the little tower of honeycomb standing upright in its spilt amber-lake. "It didn't break!" he says in surprise.

"Nah, stronger than it looks innit? Just like your dad," Alfie says, catching Tommy's eye briefly before he pulls his son from the room. The door slams a few seconds later, and Alfie is left staring at the three bowls on his kitchen table. He feels strangely alone.

*****

It's been an odd sort of day. He couldn't settle on anything, couldn't even bring himself to clear up the breakfast (it's still there, awaiting Edna's arrival tomorrow; no doubt the bowls will raise questions). He hadn't wanted to stay in the house, it had felt peculiarly empty, so had headed to Covent Garden Market and wandered the mostly-vacant piazza to return with a large bag of oranges and a new jar of honey, complete with honeycomb; god knows why as he's no idea when (or if) he'll see Charlie again.

It's gone eight when the telephone rings that evening. He doesn't feel like speaking to anyone, but the relentless trills eventually drive him from his chair by the fire. _This had better be good._

"Alfie, thank god," says an exasperated female voice, which he immediately places as Ada's. "Are you done with my brother?" she asks, "because he needs to get his arse back here. Now. Charlie won't sleep without Henry."

"Henry?" Alfie says, confused.

"His horse," Ada clarifies. "He says he left it at yours."

"Horse, you say. Yeah, yeah, right. Think he did," Alfie sighs, looking over at the beady-eyed creature he retrieved from the hallway this morning. 

"Well can Tommy drop it over? Preferably soon. Or none of us is going to get any peace." As if to reinforce the point he can hear Charlie whinging in the background.

"No problem, just Tommy's not..." but she has already hung up. _Bloody hell._ "Look what you've got me doing," he says to the stuffed black animal that sits on his sofa. It stares back at him, accusingly. How is any of this _his_ problem? He should leave them to it, get an early night, forget about fucking Shelbys. Only it's not Charlie's fault, is it? Which is why he finds himself pulling on his hat and coat and heading out to his car despite the freezing night air.

He finds Ada's house after only a couple of missed turns, and takes a deep breath before walking up the steps to knock at the front door. Ada herself answers and looks surprised to see him, "Alfie, sorry, I didn't expect _you_ to come out. Where's Tom?"

"He's busy," Alfie says, handing over the horse.

"Typical," Ada says, rolling her eyes. "So busy he's got you running around for him!"

"Not runnin' around for _him_ , am I? S'for Charlie," Alfie says, a little too firmly.

"Right," Ada nods. "Tea, before you head back?" She still has her hand on the door.

"No, I shouldn't. I should go."

"That's if you're still talking to me, of course" she adds, looking briefly at the floor. And that's done it, hasn't it? That little aside is too interesting to ignore. Why wouldn't he be talking to Ada?

"You know what? Tea would be nice, actually, yeah. Just a quick one."

****

"So. How is my brother?" Ada asks, once a maid has taken Henry upstairs and they're seated in her plush living room.

"Saw him yourself this morning, didn't you?" Alfie says in reply, careful to avoid the actual question.

"Only to drop off Charlie. He said about three words before he fucked off back to yours."

"Right."

She looks at him intently before leaning back in the armchair. "Only he didn't go back to yours, did he?" She blows smoke at the ceiling as she shakes her head. She's got Tommy's instincts alright. 

Alfie clears his throat. "Should he have done?"

"Yes!" she says tutting. "I only agreed to have Charlie so you and he could talk this shit through. Fucking hell. He better not..." she stops herself, rubbing her thumb across her temple.

"He better not _what_?" Alfie asks when, after a sufficient pause, she doesn't finish the sentence. He doesn't like the look of concern on her face. 

"It doesn't matter. Where is he?" 

"What the fuck is going on here, Ada?" he says. "Because Tommy going AWOL ain't usually a cause for concern, now is it? S'usually par for the fucking course."

"I need to make a phone call," she says, rising from her chair, but he stands at the same time and grasps her by the wrist. It's not hard, but he's overstepping a line and he knows it. She glances down at his hand, and back up to his face and there is a look of contempt in her eyes so familiar he is almost shocked at the likeness. 

"Sorry," he says, slowly releasing his grip. "Just tell me what's going on. Please."

"I'm worried."

"That much I gathered. Why?"

"Because of what I said."

"About your father?"

She laughs softly, a small, humourless sound. "Well, that too..." _Fucking hell, that's clearly rattled Tommy quite enough. What else has she done?_

"You're not going to like this, Alfie _..._ but I told Polly. About you two."

Alfie blinks twice and clenches his teeth so hard he can feel it in his neck. Blood roars in his ears and he makes a deep sound in his chest that's only partly voluntary. She might not know it, but a lifetime of Alfie's worst fears have just been confirmed in a heartbeat. Revelation. "When?" he manages to grunt.

"Couple of days ago."

"And Tommy knows?"

"I told him yesterday."

"Yesterday. Right."

"At the zoo." She adds, looking unbelievably calm for someone who has just outed two of the country's most dangerous men.

"Pol's a Shelby," Ada says with venom, like she's just now catching up with Alfie's investment in this little saga. "She'll protect him over anything. Same goes for anyone he cares about."

"Like she did when he was being brutalised by his fuck of a father?" Alfie says. He doesn't even know where that came from, just that he feels fiercely threatened and insanely protective at the same time. If Ada were a bloke she'd be on the floor by now, no doubt about it, which might not be right, but it's how Alfie feels. His brain goes into overdrive, matching words to reactions to potential risks and consequences and outcomes. There are actions that need to be taken, calls that need to be made, precautions that must be put in place. He needs to contain this fucking disaster ... protect himself ... protect Tommy. _Find_ Tommy. 

"He needs Polly," Ada says. "I did it to help him."

"You thought this would _help_ him?" Alfie repeats slowly, as calmly as he can manage. "Just like you thought it would _help_ him to tell me about your vicious, brute of a father? Do you have any idea how exposed he must feel? This is _Tommy_ we're talking about. He'd rather be flayed alive than expose any weakness." And maybe Alfie should have thought about this last night, when he was too wrapped up in his own annoyance to pay any heed to what was on Tommy's mind.

"Alfie. He was on another planet during that dinner and you know it. And he reacted so badly to those fucking sweets you looked like you wanted to strangle him!" Ada sighs, rubbing her thumb on the rim of her tumbler of gin. He thinks back. It's true; he was livid. Ada glares at him with a self-assurance that is hard to counter. "And I get it. Because you didn't know. How could you? Tommy never talks to anyone. But he _needs_ you, Alfie," she continues, "he might not admit it but he does. I just wanted you to understand there's a _reason_ for his behaviour. There's always a bloody reason ... he _tries_ ..."

He knows she's right. Tommy might be sullen and contemptuous and difficult, but there is, nearly always, a fucking reason (for anyone who cares to dig for it. Which Alfie didn't last night). No wonder Tommy couldn't eat; his sister had just told the closest thing he has to a mother that he's fucking a volatile ganster. It does put a certain new perspective on the previous evening, one that, admittedly, doesn't cast Alfie in too favourable a light. What a bloody _mess_.

Ada falls back into the chair heavily and throws her hands in the air. "He needs his family back, Alfie. It's killing him. This whole goddamned feud. You know it as well as I do. And Polly is the key. She might not like it—you and Tommy—but she'll support him. Eventually."

"Then why not let _him_ tell her?"

"Because you've said it yourself; he'd rather be flayed alive than feel exposed!"

 _Touché, Ada_ , he thinks. Tou _-fucking-_ ché _._

Alfie runs his fingers through his hair and starts pacing. Ada's talking behind him, something about Polly and strength and trust, but he's really not listening. He's too busy wondering how many Shelbys would have to be murdered to keep a lid on this thing. Which is ridiculous. It's not a road he can go down for a whole host of reasons—business as well as personal—he needs to apply judgement and proportion and logic. A sequence of actions. First and foremost of which is to find Tommy, because if he's already taken things into his own hands then Christ knows what's happening. Except that Tommy didn't look in a fit state to take _anything_ into his own hands this morning, did he? Not even that jar of honey. The remaining shreds of Alfie's anger have vanished completely; he can never hold onto it for long ... tends to grip it so tight in the initial rush that he chokes it right out of his system. If only the same could be said for Tommy.

"I've spoken to Polly. He's not been in touch," Ada says, returning from the hallway. Alfie wasn't even aware she'd gone.

"How did he seem to you, this morning?" he asks.

"Like Tommy. Brusque. Distant. Tired."

"Was he squinting?"

"Squinting?" Ada asks, retracting her chin at the unusual question.

"Not that I noticed. But he had his cap pulled low."

"He didn't take it off?"

"No," she says, "no, he didn't."

"Did he smoke?"

"No," she says. "Why?"

"Nothing," Alfie answers, because he's not about to share any more of Tommy's secrets. 

"Lizzie's making enquiries," Ada says. "She mentioned something about a guest-house in Bloomsbury, but it sounds unlikely, far too low-brow for Tommy." 

"Get me the address," Alfie says, putting his hat back on his head. 

*****

It's a low-rent hotel, exactly as Ada implied, a far cry from Tommy's usual standards. The air is the first thing Alfie notices when the porter unlocks the bedroom; it's dank and sour with sweat and vomit, just as he feared. He tells the boy to _get the fuck out_ as he closes the door quietly behind him. The room is small and sparsely furnished—clearly chosen for anonymity rather than comfort. As his eyes adjust to the darkness he makes out Tommy, half-naked and curled on threadbare covers, motionless in the way of someone who isn't merely resting but actively holding himself still, as though even his body's natural rhythms are painful. Glass crunches beneath Alfie's feet when he moves to sit on the edge of the bed, tell-tale brown vials being crushed into filthy carpet. 

"This ain't safe, Tom," he says quietly, reaching for one of the skinny thighs that pokes out from a too-large white shirt—Alfie's own undershirt. That realisation thrums at the chord of guilt that's tightening around his chest. He keeps his touch firm, careful not to stroke or caress, aware that Tommy's skin will be sensitive. _Christ_ , even his legs are thin.

"Whadda you care," Tommy mumbles, voice hoarse from lack of use.

"Only took 10 shillings for that lad to open the door." It's pointless arguing, Tommy's far beyond reason, either from the migraine itself or the dope he's necked to deal with it. Eight o'clock that weasel of a boy said he checked in—over thirteen hours ago. If experience is anything to go by it's got to start waning soon. Alfie moves to open the window, to let some air into the fetid room. Street noise assaults his ears and he knows it's the last thing Tommy needs, but he's not interested in making this more bearable, he's focused on getting him home. 

"Piss off," Tommy snarls, opening his eyes just enough to reveal a sliver of steely blue. He reaches for the cigarette case on the bedside table and throws it at Alfie with an indecipherable growl. 

"Fucks sake," Alfie says wearily, grabbing him by the arm and yanking him up from the bed. He's disturbingly easy to move. "Look, I'm sorry. I was an arse," he says, ignoring the pained groans. He throws Tommy's trousers at him. "But you are going to get dressed or, I swear to god, I'm gonna drag you out of here as you are."

Tommy tries to speak but whatever invective was brewing turns into a spluttering retch. Alfie grabs a towel from the end of the bed and flings it into his lap. "You can retch all you like, mate, there's nothing to chuck up. Which is one of several things we need to talk about."

Tommy grumbles and tries to lie down again, but Alfie catches his hand to stop him. The movement causes Tommy to clasp his head in his hands, which would make Alfie falter if he weren't so focused. "If you think I'm leaving you in this cesspit to starve yourself for another day then you are sorely mistaken. We move, right fucking now, or I'm calling your sister."

Fifteen minutes later Tommy is in Alfie's car. Thank god for the cap and the coat that hide his deathly pallor (and the fact he's barely dressed). Not that anyone at that shit-hole of a hotel batted an eyelid at the sight of Alfie helping a half-dressed, half-comatose man down the stairs—not for the price of a pint. "Twenty minutes you'll be back in the dark, love." It's all the consolation Alfie can give, but it'll have to do for now. He looks at the pathetic heap of wool laid out on his car's back seat; at the bare, skinny ankles poking out of loose trousers, and the hauntingly hollow face. _Make him hungry,_ Ada had said. How the _fuck_ is he meant to do that? 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lots of thanks to Muse boundinshallows for your input and comments and feedback! And to tinypinetrees for the headcanoning on this entire topic (which will come to fruition in chapter 3!)
> 
> I really hope you enjoy and, as ever, would love to hear what you think.


	3. Honeycomb

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An overprotective Alfie is a dangerous Alfie.

The first time he wakes it's the sounds that rouse him: wood popping and sputtering as it surrenders to hungry flames; air being dragged up the chimney in greedy, irregular yawns. Must be windy outside. He shivers.

The second time consciousness claws through the haze it comes for him through his bones: the dull ache of knee-joints, too-long stacked together; the burn of hip-sockets that haven't been used; the familiar throb of his ill-mended skull. He shifts just enough to relieve the worst pressure and tries to drift back into sleep.

"Tom?" says a tentative voice.

"Not yet," is all he can rasp as he reaches for another brown vial on the bedside table and swigs it back in one. He hears a deep sigh and the creak of a chair as he slips back into the dark. 

The third time he stirs he's clutching his stomach. The pain in his head is weakening, thinning, spreading itself out as it seeps off the edges. It's a blessed relief, honestly, except that it's being replaced by a familiar emptiness in his gut, so hard and hollow it hurts. He holds his knees, folds himself smaller and reaches blindly for the bedside cabinet. There are no more vials to be found.

"Fuck it. That's, enough," he hears as he opens heavy eyelids to locate the source of the voice. He tracks past the warm, orange glow of the fire (still carefully stoked like it has been for hours) and finds Alfie, sat at the desk in the corner, as solemn and still as a gargoyle. The flames cast striking shadows across his face, leaving it half in ominous darkness as he rises slowly from his chair. Leather squeaks beneath his heavy gait as he comes to stand at the end of the bed, arms folded, legs wide. It's a stance Tommy remembers well from his own days as Sergeant Major—a stance that says _I talk, you listen—_ but Alfie was no Sergeant Major. Alfie was _Captain_ Solomons, the Jewish kid from Camden Town who hauled himself over filth and fury to earn his commission. Tommy's outranked, and he feels it as he scrabbles for a scrap of defiance with which to return that invincible gaze. Just like the vials, there's nothing left to find. 

"It's Tuesday," Alfie says, and the accusation in his tone is undeniable, like Tommy has any control over these bastard incursions into his life. "Three o'clock in the morning. I'll do the maths for you. 16 hours since I dragged your sorry arse back here."

Tommy curls himself tighter, tucks his head in and awaits the onslaught of words. It doesn't come. Instead, he feels the mattress dip beside him and a hand rest on his back. Alfie's hand. The same hand that pinned him to the wall of this very room not three days ago. 

"So, you do like my shirts after all?" Alfie says.

"Fuck off," Tommy replies, voice muffled by his own knees. The soft fabric smells of Alfie's laundry soap. It's not the same shirt he had on at the hotel. 

"Makes sense, don't it? Way better than those awful, stiff things you insist on wearing." Alfie's hand is stroking the worn cotton, and it's mildly irritating. Tommy doesn't want him to stop.

"Only fit for sleeping in."

"Right, that's why they keep going missing, is it?"

Tommy hugs his knees a little harder. He can feel the tips of his ears getting hot.

"I fuckin' _knew_ it," Alfie says. "Well, I'll admit that for a while there I had started to suspect Edna. Thought she'd been cutting them up for rags or some'ing, way she goes on about 'em. But turns out it's your dirty little secret, Thomas. I mean perish the fuckin' thought you might actually appreciate being comfortable once in a while." Alfie is absolutely fucking _delighted_ with this discovery, and Tommy curses himself for being so obvious. The hand on his back is starting to make him itch.

"M'hungry," he snaps—more to change the subject than because it's true—he's not sure he can actually stomach anything yet. He pulls himself upright, using Alfie's arm for leverage, and swings his legs over the side of the bed. He makes it onto his feet, head swimming with the elevation, and has to stand still for a few seconds.

"Hmmm," Alfie says, folding his arms again. "Half a sausage roll and five spoonfuls of porridge'll do that to a man." 

"Fuck are you on about?" Tommy says, with more breath in his voice than he'd intended.

"What you've eaten. Since You left Birmingham. On Friday fuckin' night."

"Keeping a diary, eh?"

"No, I am not keeping a fuckin' diary...wouldn't fill half a bleedin' page if I did!"

"There's been a lot going on, Alfie," he says, as if that clearly explains something. Or anything.

"Yeah, so I heard, Thomas. So I fuckin' well heard." 

Tommy grips the bedpost with one hand as he drags his head up to discern what exactly Alfie's heard, eyes struggling to focus through the loosening opiate haze. His vision settles at some point in the centre of Alfie's head; there's a blur of beard and lips before four eyes gradually come into focus, then two. He almost wishes they hadn't because he feels like an insect under a microscope, spindly limbs splayed out and trapped between layers of glass. Transparent to the scrutiny of this excruciatingly attentive watchman.

"Your sister saw fit to tell your aunt about us," Alfie says.

His tone is so matter-of-fact, so devoid of emotion, that Tommy wonders if he's misheard. Or maybe Alfie’s calm because he’s done something already. To Ada. Or Polly. Dealt with it somehow. He feels his stomach lurch and desperately swallows down the retch that's threatening to turn him inside out; he doesn't quite succeed in stifling the choking sound.

"See that, right there. _That_ is the fuckin’ problem," Alfie says, jabbing at Tommy's stomach. "Sit back down before you fall the fuck over, will you? I'm not about to shoot anyone." Tommy drops back onto the bed next to Alfie like someone's taken a hammer to the backs of his knees. 

"I'm not gonna lie; it's far from ideal. Very fuckin' far if I'm honest," Alfie says. Tommy's pulse is galloping like he's run five furlongs on the flat (he's sweating like he has too), and his head falls into his hands. When did Alfie find out? How? Who told him? 

"Women. Fuck’s sake. Never have understood 'em. Not that I've needed to. Never _known_ any well enough, least not since me dear old mum..." He can hear Alfie's voice in the background, but there are too many questions swirling and tripping over one another in his still-too-addled head.

"...and, well, there's Edna of course, but she hardly counts. I mean she counts as a woman, obviously, but not as a woman I've ever needed to understand, if you know what I mean..." Tommy is staring intently at his left thigh, pressed tight against Alfie's right, trying to discern some meaning in the meandering stream of words. What is Alfie actually thinking? What is he planning to do? What does _Tommy_ need to do?

"I thought your sister was different, though. I did _not_ see that coming. But that's the thing about women, innit? Much less predictable. Because you can look a man in the eyes, right, and you can _see_ , just fuckin' _know_ , what is going through his head. Like reading an open book most of the time. 'Cept you, of course. But women ... it's a whole different language, innit? And a woman like _Ada,_ well, different alphabet too. Total mystery to me, mate." He stops dead and grips Tommy's thigh with one heavy hand. 

"Tommy? Can you please, for the sake of my sleep-deprived brain, just calm the fuck down?"

Tommy's mind is flickering as surely as the flames that make Alfie's rings glow gold against his clammy skin. _Maybe it's the opium, or the hunger, or the fact that Alfie knows, fucking knows, and is planning god-knows-what to silence his family, and he is in no state to react or retaliate or..._

"You're shaking, mate. Stop it. Just stop."

Tommy shoves the hand from his thigh and stands up again. He needs space to move, to think, to act, to understand what's going on here, to warn Alfie off doing anything stupid, off hurting his family. He hovers precariously in front of the man, even manages to point menacingly at his face for a second or so (without formulating the suitable words, mind) before he's caught in a rigid embrace, arms folding around his back and squeezing tight, holding him up. He clenches weak fists to fight it, to thump against Alfie's chest and push him away, but finds himself pulling at the fabric of Alfie's waistcoat instead, bunching it into his hands and pressing his forehead into that broad chest.

"What's done is done. I ain't gonna hurt anyone. Least of all your sister. I'm not a total fuckin' idiot."

They stand like that for a long time, Tommy just breathing in Alfie's warm, familiar scent—soap and woodsmoke and rum—and willing himself to believe it. It's as though he's wrapped this thing, their secret, in yards and yards of string, wound round and round to keep it safe. Only now he's realising it wasn't string, it was fuse-wire. And someone has lit the end. "Arthur's gonna find out," he mumbles, after several still minutes.

Alfie lets a low growl rumble in his chest and for a fearful moment Tommy thinks the shaking might resume. Alfie just holds him tighter. "One step at a time, love. And the first step is definitely food."

*****

"You sure you're gonna be alright?" Alfie asks again as he's heading out the door on Thursday morning.

"I'm fine, Alfie. I'm not a fucking invalid," he snaps, although the truth is he feels like a rubber band, stretched to breaking point but unable to snap. He ought to head back to Birmingham, but Alfie was insistent. Ada's keeping Charlie until the weekend, so really it makes sense to stay. It has nothing to do with the fact that it's nice to listen to Alfie's breath when he lies awake at night, even less to do with the feel of a warm arm around his waist when he wakes from whatever rest he's managed.

"Edna's made one of her pies especially for you, so eat it, for fuck’s sake. You don't wanna go offending a proud Jewish woman over her cooking, I can assure you."

Tommy doesn't question at what point Edna was brought in on this arrangement, but she seems perfectly non-plussed when she arrives later that morning to find Tommy sitting at the desk in Alfie's living room. It dawns on him that slowly but surely this circle of knowledge is growing (Frances, Edna, Ada, Polly, probably Lizzie and Johnny Dogs too if he's honest). He wonders how much Olly knows. He must have his suspicions, unless he's a complete moron, (which actually, Tommy's never been entirely convinced he isn't).

He's picked at food for the last two days, not only to keep Alfie happy, but because he doesn't actually enjoy feeling weak. He takes a long, slow walk along the canal before lunch and comes back with the semblance of a plan for the Polly situation. He needs Alfie to agree to it first, but having _something_ to work on makes him feel less jittery. He might even feel the stirrings of appetite. He likes Edna's meat pies, and wonders briefly whether Alfie has actually worked that out or if it was just a lucky guess.

There's a slice ready cut on the kitchen table when he lets himself back in, the rest sat next to it on a larger plate. It reminds him of late-night snacks after he and Alfie have fucked, when he'll sneak down here in the early hours and pick at whatever he finds. He might have another slice in a minute, after he's phoned Michael to check-in with the factories. _Checking in with Michael_ ends up taking well over an hour and results in another four calls to various union representatives and troublesome suppliers. He's calling Michael back with a list of resulting actions when he hears the door open and Alfie's distinctive footsteps heading straight upstairs. It's rather earlier than expected. 

Fifteen minutes later he's still on the phone, by which time Alfie has come back downstairs, peaked enquiringly through the door, headed into the kitchen and reappeared to drop a plate, from a not inconsiderable height, directly onto the desk in front of him.

"What was that?" Michael asks down the line, but before Tommy can answer, the phone is wrenched from his hand by one furious looking Jew.

"He's gotta go," Alfie growls, slamming the receiver down. Tommy looks at the cracked dinner plate and the rest of Edna's pie, now sprawled half across the desk and half across his notebook.

"You did fractions at school, right?" Alfie asks. Tommy frowns and tries to keep the consternation from his face. "You know, maths? Numerical quantities that are less than a whole number? The division of whole things into parts of things?"

"Alfie."

"Yeah, course you did. Book-keeper aintcha? Head for numbers. So I am assuming, right, that you know what an eighth is?"

"Yes, I know what an eighth is," Tommy sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"Did I or did I not tell you to eat Edna's pie? Hmm?"

Tommy stares at the plate in front of him, and admittedly it does look like he's only eaten a small piece. If he hadn't got distracted, he would have eaten another slice by now and made sure to hide the rest. (In the bin. Under yesterday's paper. To avoid precisely this type of showdown). It's not his fault Alfie came home so goddamned early. 

"Did I tell you to eat one half of Edna's pie? Hmmm?" Alfie's folded his arms in that authoritative stance again, towering over Tommy who's still sat in the chair. He refuses to be intimidated and raises both eyebrows defiantly.

"Or a half of a half? Or one fuckin' _eighth?_ " Alfie spits out the last word like it's a cuss.

"Fuck off," Tommy says, because this is ridiculous. He couldn't eat a whole pie if he'd run twenty laps at Epsom on foot.

"A half of a half of a half. That's what you've eaten."

"I know what a fuckin' eighth is!" he shouts.

"And quite frankly, I'm being generous there. Tenth might be more like it. So, I'll tell you what's going to happen, shall I?" Alfie continues. "I am going to eat the dinner, which Edna has kindly left on the stove, which you have kindly ignored all day, and then I am going to make _you_ eat _yours_."

Tommy barely has time to wonder at the details of that threat (beyond the fact that it very definitely _was_ a threat) before Alfie stalks off towards the kitchen, leaving him sat behind the desk like an idiot. He pulls his notebook out from under the remnants of meat and pastry and uses his handkerchief to clean the worst from the pages. He straightens his open-necked shirt and heads for the dining room, where Alfie is sitting with a steaming bowl of stew. Chicken, he supposes; he didn't look too closely earlier. There's no place set for him because Alfie clearly wants to be perverse, so he heads towards the kitchen to fetch his own. He's brought up short by Alfie's voice, cold and hard as steel.

"Where d'you think you're going?" 

_Jesus_ , he's going to be a difficult bastard. Tommy stops and rubs at his neck. "I’m going to fetch me own dinner," he says in as calm a voice as he can muster.

"No, love. No, you're not," Alfie says, and there's almost a chuckle underneath it. "That ship has well and truly sailed, mate. You'll eat it when I tell you to."

Tommy pauses a moment and then continues to walk towards the kitchen.

"Wouldn't do that if I were you," Alfie warns, "I've got another use for that mouth just now."

A shiver of anticipation prickles at Tommy's spine.

"You make me come over there and get you, and I will make _sure_ you're fuckin’ sorry."

Tommy stops at that; his knees feel weak, and despite all his rational instincts blood rushes to his groin. It's unfair how Alfie can do that with his voice alone.

"See it's very fucking cold out there. December an'all. Gets to the extremities, don't it? My hands for example. Very. Fucking. Cold." He stretches his left hand out and waggles his fingers. "So you can kneel down right here and suck some warmth back into them."

Tommy looks at the floor and then back up at Alfie who stops with his fork in midair.

"You gone deaf over there?" Alfie asks.

Humiliation coils in Tommy's belly as he weighs his limited options. Part of him wants to obey, wants Alfie to take over and lift the weight of the past few days from his shoulders, (he can almost touch the sense of solace that he knows will come with this surrender). He fears the pain and shame that Alfie will happily heap on him, but if he refuses? Alfie won't like it. He'll tell him to go home or just shun him, take himself off for the rest of the night and leave Tommy down here, alone. It's that thought, half-formed and unfinished, that drives his feet forward and drops him to his knees beside Alfie's chair. He grips onto the side of the table as Alfie strokes his cheek and thumbs at his lower lip. Without thinking, Tommy flicks his tongue out to lick at the tip and then captures it in his mouth. Alfie growls quietly and pushes his thumb further in, gold ring catching against teeth. Tommy's stomach flips. Alfie returns his attention to his stew, pushes his thumb in and out of Tommy's mouth rhythmically but doesn't look at him again.

"S'good, this stew. She's very good with the seasoning, is Edna. Just the right amount of salt. D'you like salt Tommy?"

Tommy doesn't answer, just sucks hard at Alfie's thumb, pulling more into his mouth.

"I asked you a question," Alfie says, turning to look at him once more, pressing down hard on Tommy's tongue whilst he does so. The stew smells good, which is enticing and infuriating. And then the worst thing that could possibly happen at this point happens: his stomach growls. It's loud enough that Alfie has definitely heard. Couldn't possibly not have. "You hungry, Tommy?" he asks, voice innocent as a choirboy. 

When Tommy doesn't answer (because fuck it, he might be sucking on Alfie's thumb, but he's not bloody garbling around it), Alfie puts his fork down and twists in his chair until he's facing Tommy. He pulls his thumb away and starts to unbutton his trousers.

"I was going to be nice, but fuck it, you can keep this warm instead.”

He untucks his dick, lets it drop against the coarse fabric of his trousers, offensively flaccid. Tommy stares at it and feels fury bubbling up from his guts. How dare Alfie make him do this; how dare he remain unmoved when Tommy's own arousal is straining visibly between his legs. And then Alfie reaches down to grasp at Tommy’s crotch, as if to highlight the disparity. He smiles pityingly, eyes sparkling with silent victory. Tommy closes his eyes as shame paints his face with fire, feels Alfie squeeze hard before he takes his hand away, delight resonating in his voice.

"Red really is your colour, darling. Now warm this whilst I eat." 

The next ten minutes feel like an hour, Alfie's fist wrapped tight in his hair, holding him hard against the heat of his groin. Tommy keeps himself as still as he can, hands flat on Alfie's thighs, and tries not to unpick his feelings. He focuses instead on his senses, heightened to an almost painful degree by the stillness of the room. His breath sounds loud and laboured, muffled against hot skin and coarse hair. The heady scent of Alfie's body mixes with the sweet, warm smell of slow-cooked meat on every inhalation; the wool of Alfie's trousers rests rough against his chin. It’s unnaturally silent, save for his own panting breaths and the occasional ting of fork tines against china. The man is fucking well _eating_ , likeTommy wasn't even here. He desperately wants to hollow his cheeks and suck at the soft flesh in his mouth—to draw out some reaction beyond the slight initial thickening—but Alfie had gripped his hair so hard the first time he’d warned him against licking or sucking, that tears had pooled in his eyes. He hasn't dared try again.

Alfie's fork stilled several minutes ago, and yet Tommy remains on his knees. His stomach grumbles again and humiliation threatens to overwhelm him. A small desperate sound escapes through his nose, and finally Alfie pulls his head away.

"You ready to do as you're told yet, love?" he asks, looking at Tommy with pitying eyes. "Go and wait on my bed."

Tommy staggers to his feet, wiping his mouth on the sleeve of his shirt as he stumbles out of the room.

*****

It’s cold when he gets to the bedroom. The fire has been laid but not yet lit, so he busies himself with the matches. He's glad of the distraction until Alfie’s presence looms large behind him, filling the quiet room. He stands slowly and turns around.

“Brought you something,” Alfie says, dangling black fabric from his hand. “Put it on.” The tone says it's not a suggestion.

Tommy swallows as he reaches out for what is clearly a blindfold. It’s shaped like one of those eyemasks they sometimes provide in hotels, only this one is nicer. It shimmers in the dull light of the fledgling flames. 

“Alfie, I…” he wants to tell Alfie he’s nervous, that darkness isn’t his thing . . . but he doesn’t. Instead, he takes the mask hesitantly and runs his fingers over the plush velvet, turning it in his hands and pressing the soft padding. Two satin ribbons hang in the air, one from each side.

“Turn around,” Alfie instructs, moving closer, pressing his chest against Tommy’s back as they both face towards the fire. Warm breath stutters against Tommy’s shoulder when Alfie reaches round and takes the blindfold from his loose hands to fasten over his eyes. Every last chink of warm light is eclipsed, making nerves prickle in his tight chest. When Alfie’s finished, he hums appreciatively and turns Tommy back around with his hands. He can tell he’s being stared at, can hear Alfie’s slow breaths and the way he almost growls on each slow, deliberate exhale. He wishes the man would talk.

“Come with me,” Alfie whispers, mouth close to Tommy’s ear as he takes both hands in his own. Tommy moves without hesitation, inordinately keen to maintain the closeness now that he’s without his sight. “There’s a good boy.” Alfie walks him towards the bed and presses down on his shoulders until he’s sitting on the edge. Then the hands are gone for a moment and panic threatens to erupt until he feels his laces loosen, his shoes being removed, followed by his socks, then his trousers.

The next few minutes are lost in a haze as he strives to maintain his composure. He’s lying face down on his stomach, naked bar the mask, and he just needs to feel Alfie’s hands on him—touching him, holding him, fucking him— _anything_ to show that he’s close. Relief rolls over him when Alfie straddles his hips, warm weight pressing down reassuringly. But then his hands are being bound, and the panic rises once more. He knows Alfie likes to restrain him, but he's never done it like this, behind his back. It feels somehow more sordid—demeaning—and he wants to tell Alfie that this is too dark, too _much_. But he mustn’t, he can’t, he doesn’t, because he wants to _please_ Alfie more. So he clamps the terror behind his teeth, buries it under his ribs and groans it into the sheets, where Alfie mistakes it for frustration.

“Shhh,” Alfie soothes as he runs his hands over Tommy’s back. His skin bristles at the soft sounds, at the way Alfie smooths over his shoulders and neck as if he were some small, frightened animal. “Gonna make you feel better, sweetie. But first, you open wide.”

And then something is pushed into his mouth, and for a moment he fears that Alfie is taking away his ability to speak. He inhales sharply, a fast, shocked sound, but there is chocolate melting on his tongue, silky and sweet and rich. Saliva pools at the back of his mouth, and he closes his lips around it. Alfie makes a satisfied sound, like he's pleased, like Tommy has done something good or right. It takes the edge off his fear.

The relief doesn’t last too long because the next time Alfie moves he doesn't come back. Cool air washes over Tommy’s back, and he’s conscious of the darkness again. It’s colder still where Alfie sat, damp from the memory of his skin, and _fuck_ he wants him back. He can hear the fire spitting angrily (that wood’s too wet, not seasoned properly) and keys turning in a lock. For a horrifying moment, he thinks Alfie’s left the room, abandoned him, which is why the first harsh slice against the skin of his arse is as much a relief as a shock. He inhales so sharply it makes him cough, the taste of chocolate still thick on his tongue. Alfie pauses until he’s recovered, but then lashes the leather again.

The stripes fall hard and regularly across his buttocks and thighs after that. The sound is alarmingly loud; the belt whistles each time it cuts through the air and lands with a blistering crack. After ten or twelve swipes the dread starts to swell, filling his stomach, his chest. It's too painful like this, in the dark, with the leather, he's not going to be able to hide it. Alfie knows just how to space the blows to make everything even more difficult. The delay after the initial sting is agony—a deceitful moment of reprieve that blooms into razor-sharp pain. It’s excruciating and brutal and relentless, and everything Tommy hates and yet needs. A few more heavy strikes and fear spikes in his belly, so hot and sharp it's forced out of his mouth as a cry. He feels the air moving over his tied hands, swift wisps and drafts with every new swipe. It’s not long before he’s panting, rolling his hips against the pain. This seems to stir Alfie enough to make him pause, to lean down and smooth the hair from Tommy’s forehead. The gentle touch to his face makes him flinch, such a contrast to the scalding pain of his rear. And then Alfie’s talking to him, murmuring. . ."next time I tell you to eat, you'll eat. Is that understood?" He tries to listen, but his ears are buzzing and his insides are squirming; his stomach and chest a roaring mess of conflicting sensations, writhing and prickling inside him.

“Think you're wound too tight to feel hungry. Just need some help to unravel.” And then Alfie’s on the other side of the bed, and the weapon is wielded again, bite after bite landing precisely on target, tearing at Tommy’s resolve. The brief reprieve seems only to have heightened the pain, the new strokes causing him to yelp and sniff. He feels like a miserable failure, unable to take what Alfie is giving, unable to keep it all in. “That's it, let me unravel you, Tommy. There's no one else gonna see.”

He needs to get away, to escape this, and he writhes and twists and rocks, tugging at his bound hands which refuse to give. It's all futile, Alfie keeps going, swinging the leather again and again until Tommy’s skin is blazing, so hot and tender that he can only tell the new strokes apart by the sharp puffs of Alfie’s breath.

“S’just me love, let go,” he hears, and he can’t even tell what that means. "No need to be brave all the time. Let it out."

It's not bravery but agony on Tommy's mind, he can't think of anything but how much it hurts. He's going to break. . .and that's what Alfie wants. . . maybe that's what _he_ wants. . .but he just can't seem to let go. He feels like he’s stood on the edge of a cliff, so close to the edge he could throw himself off. He’s tipping, so close to tipping, clenching the pillow, gritting his teeth, growling into the sheets. The belt continues to beat its brutal path across his skin, through his resolve, into his psyche. He clenches against the strokes; he wants it to stop so badly, and at the same time he can't form the words. Because he wants more, wants to feel hurt, deserves to be broken. Beneath the blinding pain is a rising wave of something worth chasing… adrenaline, perhaps. Exhilaration. It's smothering his resolve.

“No one’s gonna take you away from me," Alfie growls, sounding vehement, as if lashing Tommy harder will make that true. "Not your aunt, not your brothers, not the whole of bloody England.” 

And with that Tommy tumbles, falls into fresh, clean air, gasping and gulping to fill his lungs with it. He's howling his anguish into the mattress, soaking the velvet with tears. It hurts. _Fuck_ it hurts. And he no longer cares who knows. Alfie slows his arm but doesn’t stop, keeps laying the stripes that have helped Tommy topple, until he’s no longer falling but flying, no longer gasping but sobbing and whimpering as shamelessly as a child. Relief floods his entire body, dissolves his muscles, loosens his resolve.

The blows continue unabated, but he's lost any will to resist. His body slackens and he trembles in resignation beneath the continuing, weighty strikes. "That's it, darling. Just give in to it." He’s engulfed by a feeling of lightness so tangible it’s like his stomach was left on the cliff. Nothing makes sense and he stops trying to force it, just wallows in the freedom of not trying to fight it, of not having to pretend. When he’s shuddering so hard he can’t hear his own thoughts, the belt finally drops to the floor.

He comes to his senses with Alfie kissing his face, smoothing his hair, whispering into his ear. “That’s it love, s’all good. Come up here.” Alfie is trying to shift him, shuffling awkwardly to lean against the headboard and dragging Tommy up the bed. He's powerless to resist the manhandling; his whole lower body is throbbing and without his hands he can't even balance, can't make this in anyway elegant. His face falls flush against Alfie's chest as strong arms pull him higher. Ringed hands arrange his tender legs and he wipes his wet face against Alfie's chest, licking mindlessly at the salty residue. And then he's straddled in Alfie's lap, panting and boneless, as firm fingers tilt his chin upwards and a tongue pushes smoothly into his mouth. Tommy sucks at it urgently, sloppily, lapping up the warmth and the salt and the softness like he's the hungriest man alive. Everything hurts, his body a map of bruises and welts that rub and burn with fury against the rough heat of Alfie’s legs. He savours every ounce of hurt as they kiss and suck at each other, his body tipped forward against Alfie's, too limp and uncoordinated to resist the hand reaching between them to grasp his swelling cock. The sensations are so overwhelming that his brain doesn't know where to focus: on the soft, wetness of Alfie's mouth; the throbbing burn of his skin or the hot, hard need between his thighs. He rocks tentatively into the hand, every movement reminding him of what he's just taken and revealing a delicious new dichotomy: whether to stay still and soothe his poor skin or move and chase something more. 

In the end, it isn't his choice to make, because Alfie resolves the dilemma. “Dinner first.”

Tommy whines when Alfie takes his hand away, his brain struggling to process what exactly he's most hungry for: sex or sustenance. “Untie me,” he whispers wearily.

"You can’t be trusted. I’m feeding it to you. Like this.”

Tommy’s stomach falls like a stone. “You’re not fucking feeding me, Alfie.”

“Yes. I fucking well am.”

Tommy’s on high alert again, some unknown emotion firing through him as Alfie shifts and nearly tips him off his lap. And then he’s being hauled back into place, and there’s oil being swept over the dip of his arse. And _oh_ … _Jesus_ … Alfie is pressing up and into him, hard as a bullet and none too slow, one hand on Tommy’s hip and the other cradling his neck in an unforgiving grip.

“I’ll make sure you’re full, Tommy,” he says as he pulls him forcefully down.

The burn of muscle is a shocking addition to all of the other pain. It's overwhelming and electrifying and he buries his face into Alfie’s neck in his effort to accommodate it. He lets out a stifled whine as a hand moves to the small of his back and pushes him further down. Alfie strokes his hair and shushes him, but doesn't relent one bit, not until Tommy’s settled and stupefied, flush against Alfie’s thighs.

“There we go,” he says smugly, holding Tommy firmly in place. “Just relax, love. You're gonna sit right there whilst you eat this up. Come on, open.”

He wants to protest, but it's all too much. He's stuffed so full in Alfie's lap he daren't move, can't see, can't touch. He's stranded; he needs to throw his arms around Alfie's neck and hold on for dear life, but his hands are still behind his back and he can hear the fork being loaded and can do nothing but listen and wait. When Alfie instructs him, he does as he's told, blindly opens his mouth. There's no escape, nowhere else to go. Of all the things they have done this evening, this is by far the worst. By the second mouthful his heart is hammering, by the third the air feels too thin. He pushes his face against Alfie’s chest and shakes his head to say no. 

“You don't honestly think I'm letting you away with three paltry mouthfuls, do you, Tommy? Come on, open up.” Alfie’s shoving the fork at his mouth and holding his hair, but he can't, it’s too dark and it’s pressing down on him and he feels like he’s back in the tunnels. . . can’t breathe, can’t see, can’t think.

“Stop,” he says, “I’m full,” but Alfie just bucks up into him _hard_ , and it’s one sensation too much. He groans and shouts, and Alfie mistakes it for arousal, thrusting forcefully upwards again. This time he clenches against the intrusion, so tense it hurts, inhaling too sharply, too deeply then he can't seem to let the breath out. He’s not teasing or joking; he’s _smothering_. He's going to suffocate, or be sick, or both. He scrabbles for something random—anything—something to make Alfie understand.

“Skylark,” he whispers. “Skylark. . . Skylark. . . Skylark. Get this fucking thing off me!”

It works, thank God (or gypsy folklore); Alfie rips the mask from his eyes and grips Tommy’s face with his hands. It takes a moment to focus through the blur, but it’s stopped. That’s all that matters.

“S’all right, love. I’ve gotcha.”

“Too dark, couldn’t breathe,” Tommy pants as Alfie fumbles frantically with his wrists.

The tie flies across the blankets with a snarl, and then there are hands on his face again, holding him up, wiping his cheekbones, gripping him hard. Alfie looks as distraught as Tommy feels.

“Shit, love. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, OK?”

Tommy nods hesitantly and falls into his chest, arms finally able to wrap around broad shoulders; finally able to hold on. “The tunnels,” he mumbles and hopes that he needn’t say more. He needn’t. Alfie wraps him close, whispering “sorry,” quietly over and over again until Tommy comes back to himself. He just breathes, takes in Alfie's calming scent and feeling warm skin beneath his fingers. 

When eventually his heart has stopped hammering like hooves inside his chest he gently rolls his hips, just testing at first, assessing the feeling. Then he rocks down hard to silence Alfie, to prove that he’s not a lost cause. 

Slowly it builds into fucking that is soft and warm and slow. Alfie rests his head against the bedhead and won’t stop looking, holding, stroking, as if he thinks Tommy might evaporate if he turns his attention elsewhere. Tommy lets his head fall back (to escape the scrutiny as much as to feel the pleasure) and savours the closeness. Alfie knows just how to rut into him, hitting the right spot and pressing against it on every delicious thrust. And Tommy’s honestly trying to help him, to push himself up on his knees and move, but it’s like his body’s been stretched past its elastic limits and is now a straggling mess.

Eventually Alfie tips him back until he’s lying flat on the bed. Tommy just goes where he's put, lies limp and docile whilst his knees are pinned against his shoulders, and Alfie fucks back into him like he’s the last thing left on earth. There are mumbles and whispers against his neck, promising trials and torments and delicious rewards that will prove Alfie's fearsome feelings. It’s not long before they’re both on the edge, every long, slow thrust against Tommy’s sore skin just adding to the flames of desire until he’s shaking on the brink.

And then Alfie stops. Stops moving, stops touching, stops running his filthy mouth off. He reaches for a box on the side of the bed and produces a chocolate, which he holds over Tommy’s slack mouth, half-dropped open in lust.

“Five of these and I let you come. What do you say?”

Tommy rolls his eyes and growls in frustration, then lifts his head to take the sweet from Alfie’s fingers. Not his fault if he bites a finger whilst he's at it. True to his word, Alfie rewards every chocloate eaten by gradually speeding his movements, sliding and slipping in and out until Tommy’s a shuddering mess, slick with sweat and come and fucking chocolate (they didn’t all quite make his mouth). "Hmmm," Alfie coos, stroking damp hair from his face. "Just needed a little incentive, eh love?" Tommy has to smirk at the ingenuity. Infuriating bastard.

"How many times do we have to do that till you've put on a stone?" Alfie asks, when they're tired and clean and tucked up under the covers. Tommy's been fed so many chocolates by now he's starting to feel a bit sick. He just shakes his head and closes his eyes and hopes to god Alfie isn't serious.

“Always assumed these were from the war,” Alfie says after several minutes, rousing Tommy from an almost-doze. He’s brushing his fingers over the ridged flesh at the top of Tommy’s shoulder. “How many of these are your dad, eh?”

“Enough,” Tommy says very quietly. “Ada should keep her mouth shut.”

“Maybe she should. But maybe she has a point, hmm? All these little triggers, Tom, how’m I supposed to know? ”

“What if I don’t want you to know, eh? What if I’m just full of holes?”

“Like honeycomb, innit? S’the holes that make up the structure.”

“There’s no fucking honey in me, Alfie. Just dirt and blood and rot.”

“You're forgetting a very important fact, Thomas. I don’t _like_ honey. Remember?”

**Author's Note:**

> Et voila! For those of you who have been bothered by the insanity of this insane pair indulging in dubiously safe bedroom activites...at least they now have a safeword!
> 
> I'd love to hear what you thought. Or what you'd like nexr. Or anything really. This turned into way more than expected...


End file.
